


The Mysterious Blue Bottle

by Thistlepaw



Series: GFB [2]
Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Friendship, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Crush, or is it really?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-18 04:00:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21954598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlepaw/pseuds/Thistlepaw
Summary: Something's up with Craig. Clyde knows, but he's not telling. But when Jimmy finds a blue bottle of mystery booze in the back of a cupboard, Token suddenly knows how to make Craig spill the beans...
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Series: GFB [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168745
Comments: 48
Kudos: 148





	1. It's not fair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smashedkittkate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smashedkittkate/gifts), [sonofthanatos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofthanatos/gifts).



> MERRY CHRISTMAS! 
> 
> Here's the first part of a story I think a couple of you might have been waiting for. Thanks to smashedkittkate for having the idea and gently nagging me to write it, and to sonofthanatos for all the help with plotting and writing. You guys rock!
> 
> (In case you're new to this AU, hi! It might be helpful to know that this story is a prequel to my main fic, Ghosting for Beginners, set in the same AU and written from Tweek's oblivious point of view.)

Last week:  


“Clyde,” Craig says, leaning against his bedroom door as it clicks shut, “Would you want to… read this thing I wrote?”  
There’s something about the way he asks that makes Clyde instantly suspicious. Not to mention how Craig’s literally covering the only escape route from this room. Well, unless you count the rope ladder mounted under the window, in case of a fire. But Clyde’s never been that fond of heights.  
“What kind of thing,” Clyde asks, smiling and stalling for time.  
Craig ducks his head. “A poem kind of thing,” he mutters, as his cheeks start to turn red.  
Oh God. If he’s being completely honest, Clyde would rather eat his own toenails than read Craig’s poem. But… but how much is it costing Craig, asking him to do this? Over the past year, things have changed between them. Not the big, fundamental things, like being best friends. Just little things. Like how Clyde’s caught himself hurrying up in the shower after gym, whenever they end up standing next to each other. Or how he’s seen Craig about to offer him a sip from his soda, and then hesitate. Just little things, but there have been more and more of them, ever since that day at Stark’s pond. And that frightens him, more than anything, because what if those little things keep adding up until they’re suddenly _not_ best friends anymore?  
“Oh,” Clyde hears himself say, “Sure.”  
But what if Craig’s poem turns out to be _godawful?_ What’s he supposed to say _then?!_  
“Thanks,” Craig says, and Clyde can hear the bone-deep relief in his voice. “Sorry,” he adds, and Clyde realizes it’s probably written all over his face, how he doesn’t really want to do this.  
“No, dude, it’s fine,” Clyde assures him, lying through his teeth. “I, I _wanna_ read it!”  
“Doesn’t Jesus get all pissy when you lie like that,” Craig drawls, surprising a laugh out of Clyde.  
“Well, sure,” Clyde replies, shoving his hands down his pockets as he ambles over to sit down on Craig’s bed. “But I think the _Christian_ thing to do would be trying to spare your feelings? If your poetry _sucks,_ I mean,” he adds, grinning innocently up at Craig.  
Craig grins back and flips him off.  
A few months ago, Craig would’ve put him in a headlock for that, and then Clyde would’ve easily flipped him over and tossed him the floor, but now? It’s almost like Craig’s scared to touch him, or something. He goes over to his desk, pulls all the pens out of his pen-jar – an old Superman mug with the handle broken off – and puts them to one side. Then, Craig tips the mug over his hand, dropping a tiny silver key onto his palm. While Craig’s using that to unlock the top drawer in his desk, Clyde wonders if there’s a not-so-hidden message in that, in how Craig’s showing him _two_ hiding places at once. Is this Craig being Craig, and saying, _Look how much I still trust you?_  
Craig pulls a notebook out – a blue one, held closed by an elastic tie, the kind you can pick up in the stationery aisle at Target. He tosses it down on the bed next to Clyde. Trying _way_ too hard to pretend that what’s inside this book isn’t important to him at all. It’s almost cute, Clyde decides, as he picks the book up.  
“So… which one do I read?”  
“There’s only one _in_ there… so far,” Craig replies, as he pulls his desk chair out and sits on it backwards, rubbing his chin against the backrest. “I sort of… burn all the stuff that I _know_ is crap, okay? All the drafts and stuff.”  
“Okay,” Clyde replies, because what else _do_ you say? He flips over on his stomach, pulls the elastic back, cracks open the cover. There really is only one poem in there, on the very first of the lined pages. Clyde draws a deep breath, and starts to read it – but not out loud, Craig would kill him. 

_Your heart was supposed to be_  
_As brave and fearless as the sea_  
_Every bite and every sting,_  
_Your heart could take everything_  
_Currents might pull you along_  
_Waves break, but your heart stayed strong_

_Then those bastards set about_  
_Putting your bright fire out_  
_Made you bend your golden head_  
_Beat you ‘till you cringed and bled_  
_While I just watched from afar_  
_As they tried to sink your star_

_But I’ll try to catch that star in my hand,_  
_And pull you to safety, and warmth, and dry land_  
_Because there is nothing that I would not do_  
_I’d raise up the sunken Atlantis for you_  
_Since your heart was always supposed to be_  
_A treasure that only belonged to me._

“I,” Clyde begins, and then he has to clear his throat. “I didn’t know you could write like that,” he says, as he sits up on his knees. Craig is looking down at the carpet, scuffing it with his toe, and it’s not like his face gives anything away. Not so much as a blush. But still, Clyde can _tell_ that he’s pleased – it’s just something about how Craig’s shoulders have loosened up a little bit. That little sigh he lets out.  
“Do you think it’s any good,” Craig asks, and even though his voice is all flat and uncaring, Clyde can tell that his answer matters. It matters a lot.  
“I think it’s _really_ good,” Clyde says, and he means it, too. “So, ah – who’s it for?”  
Craig stands up so abruptly that he knocks over the desk chair, and almost trips over it, too. “It’s not _for_ anyone,” Craig snaps, and busies himself picking the chair up from where it landed on its side, wheels spinning. “It’s not like I could ever _give_ it to him,” he mutters, ducking his head. Not fast enough though – Clyde _totally_ just saw Craig blush.  
“Why not,” Clyde asks, keeping his voice as casual as he can.  
“Because,” Craig yells, turning around abruptly, glaring at Clyde like he’s trying to drill holes through his skull, “Because _he_ might not be into guys! Because _he_ might think it’s garbage!” He tips his head back, and lets out a huge, long sigh. “Because I don’t know,” he says, aiming his words up at the ceiling.  
“So it _is_ for someone.” Clyde’s nothing if not persistent. “Do I know this guy?”  
“I guess you might.” Craig says, as he comes over and sinks down on the mattress. Clyde can’t help but notice that he’s cramming himself into the corner by the wall, leaving kind of a wide gap between them – and he hates that. He really, really hates that.  
“So… is this guy in our class?”  
Bingo. Craig’s shoulders are suddenly all the way up under his ears, and he’s staring down at the carpet like he’s trying to count each individual thread. “Maybe,” he says at last, and his voice is so quiet and creaky that Clyde just wants to pull him close and muss his hair, until Craig swears and slaps his hands away. So why can’t he move?  
“Okay, so… I’m pretty sure he’s not Token,” Clyde teases, opening the book again. “I mean, that bit about his golden head, you’re talking about his hair, right?”  
“Give me that,” Craig growls, snatching the book back without so much brushing his fingertips against Clyde’s hand.  
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. So,” Clyde flops back on the bed, “I hope you’re not talking about Kenny McCormick? ‘Cause like, I’d lose _all_ respect for you if you were in love with _him_.”  
“I’d lose all respect for _myself,_ ” Craig snaps, but at least he doesn’t get up. At least he leans back to lie flat on the mattress too, next to Clyde, protectively clutching the blue notebook to his stomach. “It doesn’t matter who it is, okay?”  
“It’s Tweek,” Clyde says, as the realization suddenly hits him. “Holy shit, I’m right! Aren’t I?” Because Craig has just wrapped one arm around his head and rolled over on his side, but even the back of his _neck_ is turning bright red. Would it be weird, if he goes and puts his hand on Craig’s shoulder now? Clyde’s honestly not sure, so he doesn’t.  
“Shut up,” Craig growls, as if Clyde could leave it alone, now that he knows! Not even if he wanted to!  
“But that’s, that’s not so bad,” Clyde says, because it doesn’t strike him as _that_ unlikely that Tweek actually _might_ be gay. “I mean, why don’t we just… ask him if he wants to hang out sometime?”  
Craig suddenly sits bolt upright. “Are you crazy?!”  
“No,” Clyde replies, and he can hear his own voice going all dead and flat, “That was my mother.”  
Then the silence hangs between them for a while, until Craig shifts a little closer and bumps his head against the side of Clyde’s head. “Dude, I’m sorry,” he says, very quietly. Because he knows there’s _nothing_ Clyde’s more afraid of than what may be hiding in his own DNA, ready to crawl out and take control of his brain.  
“It’s fine,” Clyde mutters, and suddenly it’s the most natural thing in the _world_ to put his arm around Craig’s shoulders. “I know you didn’t mean it like that.” It hits him then, the clear, ice-cold certainty that if he isn’t careful, he’s going to lose Craig, too. Not like how he lost Mom, in a single, awful night. This will be slower, more drawn out – and it’s not like Craig’s going to _die,_ is it. He’s just going to move on, find other friends who’ll know that he’s gay from the start, who won’t have to navigate this… this misty landscape where nobody’s drawn in their boundaries yet. This uncharted territory.  
Clyde clears his throat. “Anyway,” he says, “Thanks for showing me.”

Now:  


“Who’s h-hungry,” Jimmy asks, as he leads the way into the kitchen. It’s a rhetorical question, of course. Dinner was hours ago, and even then, Token made sure not to eat too much. He dumps his overnight bag next to Clyde’s plastic grocery bag, which he seems to have just shoved a set of pyjamas and a toothbrush into.  
“Dude, I could eat _you,_ ” Clyde says, then immediately starts to giggle like a little kid when he realizes how that might sound.  
“Thanks, but n-no thanks,” Jimmy instantly fires back.  
“Hey! If it was life or death and I had to turn to cannibalism, I’d totally kill and cook you first! Craig and Token are way too skinny!”  
From behind Token, Craig snorts once. Token turns to look at him, already shaking his head. “Good thing we’re safe, eh,” he says, and Craig, who’s hanging his blue coat up on one of the pegs on the wall, just grunts in reply.  
“Dude,” Token blurts out, “Are you wearing your PJ’s _already?_ ”  
“I live like, three doors down,” Craig replies, with his usual unflinching stare. “This way, we’re not gonna run out of hot water. For showering in,” he adds, when Token doesn’t say anything.  
“Oh. That… makes sense.”  
Except, well… it really doesn’t. Craig’s been funny about stuff like that, for the past few months. Sometimes, after gym, he’s in and out of the showers like the Flash. And sometimes, he’ll wait until almost everyone else has left before he showers. It’s not like he’ll get anywhere by asking, though – Token still knows Craig _that_ well, at least. “I guess, since I live so far away…” He shrugs, as he turns to follow Jimmy and Clyde. Maybe he’s just reading too much into things, because the four of them have had like a _million_ sleepovers over the years. Hell, Token can’t even count the times he and Craig would stand there and pee into the same toilet, growing up. So why should Craig suddenly be all uncomfortable around _him?_  
“This is so… organized.” Clyde is all starry-eyed, as he digs through Mrs Valmer’s freezer drawers. He’s sitting on the floor in front of the fridge, pulling out one drawer at a time. “Meat in this one, fish it that one…”  
“Icepacks in that o-one,” Jimmy chimes in, as Clyde pulls the middle drawer open, and quickly shoves it back in. “P-poultry’s in the fourth drawer. Mom m-made chicken wings, with some kind of m-m-miso glaze?”  
Clyde yelps like a puppy, and starts digging through the fourth drawer with renewed vigour. “She _labels_ everything,” he gushes, while Token and Jimmy exchange a look and shake their heads fondly.  
“Glad _I’m_ not a vegetarian,” Craig says, so abruptly that Token jumps a little. Of course, padding in here in just his socks, it’s not like Token should’ve expected to hear him.  
“Dude, I nearly spat my _soul_ out,” he says, and gives Craig the lightest shove in the _world._ But Craig doesn’t even try to retaliate; he just grunts and takes a few steps to the side before he flips Token off. Still, for a second there, Token could swear he saw Craig _flinch_. What the hell is _up_ with him, anyway?  
“I w-was thinking,” Jimmy says, bracing himself on the counter with one hand while he’s switching on the oven, “We could w-w-warm up a f-few things and share ‘em? Like a Chinese b-buffet?” He’s clearly picked up on the weird atmosphere in the air, because nobody can read a room like Jimmy can. And so, in true Jimmy style, he’s doing his best to pop the boil.  
“Genius,” Clyde agrees, as he holds out a huge transparent bag of glazed chicken wings to Token. “Here, you take… Craig, there’s frozen _enchiladas!_ ”  
“It’s like she knew you were coming,” Craig drawls, leaning past Token to pull this second bag out of Clyde’s hand. He goes over and starts rooting through the drawers like he lives here, pulls out the roll of tinfoil and starts spreading it across a baking tray. You don’t _microwave_ Mrs Valmer’s food – the four of them are in absolute agreement on that point. You might as well just order a takeout from Shitty Wok, then.  
Meanwhile, Jimmy’s digging through one of the cupboards that run along the floor, muttering, “Come on, come on…”  
“What’re you looking for,” Token asks, sinking down into the lotus position. From over by the fridge, they can hear Clyde yelling, “Sweet _potato_ fries?!” So Jimmy’s already laughing when he straightens up and says, “Bottle of mystery b-booze.” _That_ gets everyone’s attention.  
“Guys,” Craig drawls, “I’d hate to sound like Token…”  
Rolling his eyes, Token holds his arm up and twists his hand around, making sure he’s flipping off every direction of the room, while Clyde and Jimmy both snicker.  
“…but let’s maybe _not_ be irresponsible assholes?”  
What are you so afraid of, Token thinks, as he pulls out the tidy stack of saucepans and puts it down on the brown floor-tiles. It doesn’t seem logical that Mr Valmer would hide a bottle behind the saucepans, but there’s a dark corner that Token can’t _quite_ see into. He’s not keen to feel around blindly in _anybody’s_ cupboards, even Mrs Valmer’s, because mice can find their way in anywhere. Maybe if he uses the flashlight function on his phone…  
“Oh my _God,_ you guys,” Clyde yells, and suddenly his arms are wrapped around Token’s waist, yanking hard. “Token’s all _sour!_ ”  
He’s not – he’s honestly not. Token tries to tell Clyde as much, but it’s hard to talk when Clyde’s in the middle of tickling you. That’s another thing about being friends since forever – knowing each other’s weaknesses. And Token Black is _insanely_ ticklish. This actually ends up backfiring on Clyde, as Token goes berserk just trying to get away. He not only kicks Clyde in the shin, he kicks Mrs Valmer’s saucepans halfway across the kitchen, too.  
“Sorry,” Token pants, as soon as Clyde’s let him go. Scooting away from Clyde on his butt because that’s faster than trying to stand up, and risking another attack. “About the _pans,_ ” he adds, just to clarify, when Clyde looks up from rubbing the side of his leg. “ _You_ brought that on yourself.”  
“Seriously,” Craig mutters, as he squats on the floor and starts picking the saucepans up. Shaking his head, like they’re all too childish, and he’s suddenly too cool.  
“You make it sound like I kill all the fun in the world,” Token says, and maybe he didn’t mean for it to come out _quite_ so accusing. “It’s not like we’re gonna drive a _car_ tonight,” he goes on, doing his best to sound less mad, “ _Or_ operate heavy machinery. Right, Jimmy?”  
“Well,” Jimmy grins as he taps the top of the cooker, “I’m pretty sure this th-thing w-w-weighs a bit! Hah!” He suddenly reaches inside the tea cupboard – Mrs Valmer _loves_ to hoard teas – and pushes a few packets aside. Like an Olympic athlete raising his trophy, Jimmy holds up a large blue bottle with a yellow label. “Found it!”  
Craig, who’s very subtly gone to stand right behind Jimmy in case he should overbalance, squints to read the label. “Becerovka? What the hell is _that,_ ” he asks, holding the re-assembled stack of pans out to Clyde – probably since he’s still sitting on the floor.  
“Some kind of vodka,” Clyde hazards, as he shoves the pans back inside the cupboard with a few loud clangs – not bothering to look too closely. He bounds to his feet, and takes the bottle from Jimmy’s hand. “My cousins showed me this trick, for how to make booze not taste gross?”  
“Your _Dutch_ cousins,” Token asks, raising an eyebrow. The Dutch cousins are legendary, but for all the wrong reasons, as far as Token’s concerned.  
“Du-uh,” Clyde says, as he holds the bottle up to the ceiling light. “You just mix it with fruit juice. What language is this?”  
“No idea,” Jimmy shrugs, just as Craig reaches past him to snatch the bottle out of Clyde’s hand. “M-maybe Russian, or P-Polish?”  
“I have zero faith in you not to give us all alcohol poisoning,” Craig drawls, talking over Clyde’s half-hearted protests. Clyde always gives in to what Craig wants; so that’s no surprise. It’s been that way since they were kids. Craig’s always been the boss; and that’s that. “Token?”  
Token can tell straight-away that this is one of those roundabout not-quite-apologies that Craig is famous for, because Craig is holding the mysterious bottle out to him, now, by the neck. “I’ll only touch this stuff if _Token_ mixes it,” Craig says, ducking his head and addressing his words to Token’s left shoulder.  
“Okay.” Token accepts the bottle, _and_ the responsibility. He can’t help but notice how Craig’s making sure that their hands don’t touch at all when he passes the bottle over, but Token’s not even annoyed anymore, just… uneasy. Why are you acting like this, he wants to ask, but can’t. What’s going on with you, Craig?  
Are Clyde and Jimmy really that oblivious, or can they sense it too, this unease that seems to radiate off of Craig in waves? Those two are joking around now, filling up _three_ oven trays with frozen food.  
“Huh,” Craig says, pulling the refrigerator door open. “I don’t think we’re gonna run out of juice anytime soon.” Token goes to look over his shoulder, and he can’t help but snort. Jimmy’s parents – Or let’s be honest, Token thinks, Jimmy’s _mother_ \- invested in a bright yellow SMEG fridge a few years ago, the type that looks like you bought them from a guy with a time-portal to the 1950’s. The price kind of reflects that, but it’s not like Mr Valmer can’t afford it. At least the yellow SMEG is nice and deep; Mr Valmer likes to joke that it’s the perfect place to stash a dead body. But anyway, Mrs Valmer seems to do her shopping by sweeping the entire front row of the juice section into her cart; because there’s not just apple and orange juice – there’s cranberry, pineapple _(ugh),_ passion fruit, blueberry and even _lychee_ juice!  
“Wooow,” Clyde says, absently resting his chin on Token’s shoulder while he stares at all the different flavours. Token’s never seen anything but orange juice in the fridge at Clyde’s house. “Lychee juice, man!”  
“I know,” Token says, shaking Clyde off so he can help Craig line up all the cartons on the counter.  
“Make mine with lychee juice, okay,” Clyde begs, as he starts getting some plates out. “ _And_ passion fruit, but for the love of God, no pineapple, and –”  
“Nothing wrong with p-pineapple,” Jimmy says, while he picks knives and forks out of the cutlery drawer.  
“Except on pizza,” Craig drawls, and then all four of them take a moment to shudder in unison.  
“I’d better make everyone’s drinks in different glasses,” Token says, his eyes flickering over to the cupboard Mrs Valmer keeps mugs and tumblers in. A few years ago, she got a whole bunch of tall glass tumblers in five different colours; those will be perfect. Token remembers it very well, because she let Jimmy invite the three of them over to break all their old glasses, perma-stained and horrible from the dishwasher, in the yard out back. The boys had lined them up on the garden table with a big plastic tarp underneath, and thrown stones from a safe distance. Jimmy balanced on one crutch, Clyde pitching rocks like baseballs, while Craig had thrown _his_ rocks like he was skimming them on Stark’s pond. That had been _so_ much fun.  
“You’d better write down what everyone wants,” Craig says – not an order exactly, though he makes it sound like the only possible solution there is. “Since Clyde’s being such a princess about not liking pineapple.”  
Clyde flips Craig off, right under his nose, but he’s grinning.  
It’s a good idea, though, so Token gets out his phone and opens a new document. And it’s while he’s typing in Craig’s preferred mix – orange, pineapple and passion fruit – that he suddenly gets the best _and_ worst idea _ever_.

Token was the only one who brought a DVD over – and of course it’s The Lion King. Jimmy laughs so hard, he almost falls right off the sofa, and Token goes rigid with embarrassment. “You’re so cute,” Jimmy howls, the words rolling effortlessly out of him for once, while he slaps the armrest.  
“ _I_ thought we were doing nostalgia night,” Token huffs, as he puts the tray of drinks down on the coffee table. He’s picked those tumblers with the round lumps at the bottom – perfect for eating greasy food, since that makes ‘em easier to hold on to. According to Dad, people made glassware like that back before cutlery was invented, when everyone just ate with their fingers.  
“If we watch Lion King,” Clyde says, sliding his arm around Token’s neck so he can muss his hair, “It’ll be quote-along night.” They’ve all watched Lion King enough times to more or less recite the whole movie verbatim; Token was awfully hung up on it back in the day. He’d even set a picture of Simba as his messenger icon.  
Jimmy had made sure to set Quasimodo from Hunchback of Notre Dame as his own; until Mom saw it on his phone and got upset. “You’re allowed to want to be the prince,” she’d said, all choked up, and as a kind of compromise Jimmy had changed it to Gaston from Beauty and the Beast.  
“Conjuring wasn’t bad,” Craig says; picking up the cover of the double DVD Jimmy put next to the TV before the guys arrived. “I never got around to watching the second one.” That means Craig’s vote goes to Jimmy, which is sort of a relief. Jimmy’s been wondering if Craig’s upset about something he said. Jimmy genuinely has no idea what that might’ve been, though, since he does talk an awful lot of shit.  
“Oh! So maybe if we _start_ with the second one,” Clyde asks hopefully. He’s probably thinking the sequel won’t be as scary; Jimmy knows for a fact Clyde hasn’t watched it either. Firstly, Conjuring 2 had been a very platonic double bro-date where Jimmy and Token (sharing a large, semi-flat cinema cola) had sat next to Kevin Stoley and Scott Malkinson (sharing a large tub of salted popcorn). And secondly, Clyde had freaked out so badly during the first Conjuring that he’d watched most of it from between his fingers – when he wasn’t too busy trying to rip Craig’s arm off, or screaming like a girl.  
“You c-can w-w-watch them in any order,” Jimmy tells Clyde, before he stretches his leg out to carefully nudge Token with his foot. “W-what do you say, Token?” It’s _Jimmy’s_ house after all, and if Token doesn’t want to watch the same movie twice, they can dig out another DVD.  
“I don’t mind,” Token shrugs, back to his usual easy-going self. Maybe _he_ had a fight with Craig earlier – _that_ would explain the weird whatever-it-is; that hangs over their little gang tonight like a stale fart. “Anyway, the yellow one’s yours, Jimmy, the blue one’s Craig’s. You get the green one,” he adds, jerking his chin at Clyde, who immediately picks his glass up.  
“Hah, it looks like pond scum,” Clyde says, holding his drink up to the ceiling light. “I mean, thanks, Token!”  
“Would you rather have a pink one,” Token drawls, as he passes the blue glass to Craig, who’s sitting on the floor.  
For just a moment or two, Craig freezes up. Then Clyde says, “Nah, I’m not _that_ much of a princess,” and suddenly, Craig’s back to normal.  
“Thanks,” he says, a few seconds too late for it to seem natural. Jimmy also can’t help but notice how weird Craig is about accepting that glass. Token’s holding on to the bottom, where the lumps are, and instead of just taking it like a normal person, Craig picks it up by the _rim,_ a bit like a crane picking up a rock. Is he _that_ worried about spilling it, or…? Wait. Jimmy’s _seen_ Token and Craig post-argument before, when they’re too pissed to even look in each other’s general direction. But even if those two _aren’t_ in a fight, something is still very much up with Craig. He can’t quite put his finger on what it _is_. And there’s something else that’s been nagging at Jimmy…  
“So who’s v-vegetarian,” Jimmy asks, just as he brings his hand down on Craig’s shoulder. The reaction is… not at all what he’d have expected, as Craig swears and jerks his arm back, spilling fruit juice down his own sleeve.  
“Dude,” Craig snarls, setting his dripping glass down on the nearest empty plate. “Give me a heart attack, why don’t you!” Then he gets to his feet and stalks out of the living room. A few seconds later, Jimmy can hear the sound of running water from the kitchen; Craig’s probably washing the sticky juice off his arm.  
Now that it’s just the three of them left, Token drops to his knees on the other side of the coffee table, whispering, “What the _hell_ crawled up Craig’s ass today?”  
On the couch next to Jimmy, Clyde suddenly chokes on his drink. A nice, targeted blow between the shoulder blades quickly takes care of that, though. “Sorry,” Clyde hacks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  
“Did _you_ have a fight with him,” Token hisses, talking quickly in case Craig comes back. Unsurprisingly, Clyde shakes his head. “Jimmy?”  
Jimmy shrugs. “I d-don’t _think_ so,” he whispers, just as Craig appears in the doorway with his pyjama sleeves rolled up. And there’s another weird thing; who actually goes _outside_ in their PJ’s after like, the age of two? “Craig,” Jimmy yells, sitting back as casually as he can manage, “You w-want a T-shirt or something?”  
“Nah,” Craig shrugs as he walks over and takes up his previous spot on the floor, “I’m good.”  
You’re really not, though, Jimmy thinks but doesn’t say. It’s bugging him for real now – _who’s_ vegetarian? And _why_ did that question make Craig jump like an electrocuted frog? 

It’s not fair. Craig can’t even focus on the movie. He’s not even hungry, and all the food tastes the same anyway, tastes like cardboard. He picks up a single sweet potato French fry and dips it in the mayonnaise on his plate. If Tweek were here, this’d be the only thing he could eat.  
No. Don’t think about Tweek.  
Craig shoves that lone fry into his mouth and starts to chew. It’s slightly spicy, but it’s not chilli – paprika, maybe? Still, it’s spicy enough that he has another sip of his cocktail; not that you can taste much alcohol over the fruit juice. Good thing he asked Token to do the mixing, Craig thinks, as he tries to put his blue glass back on the coffee table, and almost misses the edge completely. Huh. He must be tired or something. Craig’s been sleeping, sure, but his dreams are always restless now, and Tweek’s had a starring role in way too many of them.  
Blue, he thinks. Just for a second, when Token had made that crack about wanting a pink glass instead, Craig had been convinced that Token _knew_. Turns out he’d only been talking to Clyde, but that moment of icy fear… Craig’s been thinking, for a while now, that it’s only a matter of time before either Token or Jimmy figures it out; they’re two of the smartest kids in class. And then what? Will they feel like he’s been lying to them this whole time, by keeping it a secret? Will they wonder if he’s been checking either of _them_ out?  
Of course, Craig can’t _help_ but see how impossibly handsome Token’s become, with his perfectly symmetrical face and a voice like… like maple syrup poured over pancakes. Tall and slim but still muscled up in all the right places, good at sports; good at everything. Even those glasses he claims to hate look good on him, when Token needs a break from wearing contacts. And sure, Jimmy’s legs are painfully twisted, and thinner than they should be, but his shoulders are wide, his arms thick with muscle. His face may be kind of uneven, one brow visibly higher than the other, and of course there’s the stutter – but none of that shit matters, when you’re as charming and _warm_ as Jimmy is. Sure, some girls will be assholes to him, that’s just how life _works_. But Craig’s been dragged to more than one party where Jimmy was that one guy on the sofa surrounded by laughing girls.  
Ugh, it’s getting hot in here – Craig slips his hat off his head, and drops it somewhere on the floor behind him. Is it _weird_ of him to notice these things about his friends? He’s not into either of them, not at all, _because_ they’re his friends. But, would they really believe that? Clyde seems to; but Craig has no idea how long that’ll last. How long Clyde will keep covering for him, until he lets _something_ slip; maybe without even meaning to.  
Craig has another sip of his drink, and discreetly undoes the top button on his pyjama shirt with his other hand. At least there’s _some_ alcohol in that blue glass; he can feel the warmth of it starting to spread through his torso. And it does taste pretty good; Token really _is_ good at everything he tries his hand at. Very carefully, Craig eyeballs the side of the table and slides the glass back on; he doesn’t want anybody thinking he’s drunk already, when he’s not even finished the whole thing.  
Up on the couch, Clyde lets out a relieved “Jesus,” and puts down the sofa cushion he’s been clinging to. Jimmy laughs, reaching out to punch him lightly in the shoulder. “Don’t _tell_ me that wasn’t scary,” Clyde says, doing his best to sound offended, before he reaches out to fill up his plate again, with just one enchilada and a chicken wing.  
“I can see why Bebe refuses to w-watch horror movies w-w-with you,” Jimmy teases, mussing Clyde’s hair while Clyde reaches past him to grab a big handful of those sweet potato fries. Clyde’s never had a problem with food being spicy. “You’d snap her s-s-spine in half, dude!”  
“Nah,” Clyde shrugs, easy-going as always; “Bebe just doesn’t like horror.”  
The movie’s entered a calm phase now; with Ed and Lorraine talking to the family of the possessed girl. The mom, who seriously talks and looks like one of the Monty Python guys dressed up as a woman, has just delivered the most weirdly poetic line in the movie so far. “He took all the music from this house,” she says wistfully, talking about the husband who walked out on her and the kids. “All the Elvis records,” she adds, and behind Craig, Jimmy lets out a loud, appreciative “Hah!”  
On the screen, Ed Warren has picked up a guitar from somewhere – movie logic, right? Either he brought the thing all the way to London with him, or the family’s just got one standing around, because maybe their no-good dad couldn’t carry that _and_ all those LP’s he left with. Craig hates it when he starts picking things apart like that, and pulls himself out of the story. It’s a damn horror movie, for God’s sake.  
Then suddenly, Ed Warren starts to sing Elvis; and Craig’s inner monologue comes to a screeching halt. “Wise men say, only fools rush in,” he sings, and his voice wraps around Craig’s heart like smoke, “But I can’t help falling in love with you.”  
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it – he really can’t help it. He can’t help watching Tweek during lunch, picking at whatever vegetarian meal option he’s bought that day, all by himself. He can’t help trying to count the faint freckles on the other boy’s cheeks, when Tweek’s calm enough to just have a chat with him before class. The searing but wonderful pain in Craig’s chest every time Tweek gives him a real, unguarded smile, or laughs at some sarcastic remark of his? Also totally not Craig’s fault. And those dreams he keeps having, about running through empty school corridors after dark, looking for Tweek before _something else_ can find him – Craig didn’t exactly choose to have those, either.  
“Shall I stay,” Ed Warren croons, and Craig suddenly realises his vision has gone all blurry, because this stupid actor singing this stupid song has somehow managed to dig his claws deep into Craig’s _soul,_ “Would it be a sin? Cause I can’t help falling in love with you.”  
“It’s not fair,” he hears himself say – out loud. Oh shit. And now it’s suddenly obvious that he’s crying, because Jimmy’s paused the movie and Token’s jumped out of the recliner and run around the coffee table.  
“Craig, w-what’s wrong,” Jimmy asks, looking almost frightened.  
Token kneels in front of him, way too close, saying, “Dude, what’s going on?”  
“It’s, it’s not fair,” Craig hiccups, desperately trying to hold the words in. It’s not like he even had _that_ much to drink, right? “I love him so much, and he barely even knows I exist!” Shit, why can’t he stop _talking?_  
“Hey. Craig.” Clyde’s suddenly there, pushing Token aside. Putting his hands on either side of Craig’s face; forcing him into eye contact. “Are you _sure_ you want to talk about this now?”  
Then Jimmy’s voice, from somewhere behind him says, completely without stuttering: “Tweek’s vegetarian, isn’t he?”  
That’s when Craig just gives up. He tips forward, burying his face in Clyde’s old Denver Nuggets T-shirt, infinitely soft from years of being washed and tumble-dried, bawling helplessly. Because it’s over, he’s lost and now they all know. And Craig’s still desperately, pointlessly in love with a boy who will _never_ feel the same way about him.


	2. And the world didn't end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and a HAPPY NEW YEAR!! 
> 
> I know I've been slow with updates this month, but here's part two - finally, am I right?! Big thanks to everyone who's read the first part and left me a comment - if I haven't replied yet, I swear I will! - and I hope you like the ending!

Last year:  


It’s freezing out, and the two boys are walking on a fresh layer of powdery snow. For a while, the only sound is the crunching, creaking sounds of the snow under their winter boots.  
“Snow like this,” Clyde says at last, “Mom used to say, it came from the angels fluffing their pillows.”  
“And you believed that shit,” Craig drawls, though there’s a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  
“Dude, it’s just a thing Dutch people say,” Clyde replies, and Craig can see him sneakily scooping up a handful of snow in his blue mittens. “My granddad even has this saying about angels peeing in your mouth!”  
“If you dunk me, I’m tossing you right into Starks Pond,” Craig tells him, very seriously.  
Clyde lets the snow tumble from his hands with a sigh.  
Just then, their path opens up between the trees – as if on cue, and there’s Stark’s Pond. Frozen solid, so there goes his threat. It’s stupidly early on a Saturday morning, so they’ve got the whole area to themselves. Pretty soon, the pond will be swarming with kids on their skates. For now, though, it’ll do.  
Craig leads the way, right out to the tip of the jetty that sticks out about halfway into the pond. Kicks all the snow off the edge; clearing a space for the two of them before he sits down. Clyde immediately plops down next to him, and starts kicking his legs – just like a little kid, even though he’s growing like _crazy_ these days.  
This is nice, though. Just the two of them. These days they’re always part of a foursome, and it’s not like Craig _doesn’t_ love Token and Jimmy to death. But with Clyde – it’s just different. Craig literally can’t _remember_ a time when Clyde hasn’t been his friend. And now… now he might be about to throw all that away.  
“Hey,” Craig says, and his voice sounds stupidly loud out here, “I need to… tell you something.”  
Clyde immediately freezes up. “What’d I do,” he yelps, and Craig can’t help but laugh at him. Even though his _own_ stomach is just one big, squirming knot. Even though he _knows_ Clyde’s only like this because he could never figure out why his mom used to yell at him. Not that _anybody_ could figure that out, most times.  
“Relax,” Craig says, slipping back into his familiar, reassuring drawl, “You didn’t do anything. I just…” Suddenly, he can’t sit still anymore. It’s too much, too close. He awkwardly climbs to his feet, and has to catch himself on Clyde’s shoulder when he almost slips on a balled-up lump of snow.  
“You have fleas,” Clyde asks, and it takes Craig a second to realize he’s kidding. “What’d I _tell_ you, about standing too close to McCormick in gym?”  
“Asshole,” Craig throws back, as fast as he can. It’s impossible not to grin back at Clyde, though. “Come on, it’s too cold to sit down.”  
Crunch, crunch, go their boots on the snow. Craig, who never remembers to bring his gloves out, shoves his hands as deep into his coat pockets as he can. They’re shaking like crazy, but only from the cold, right?  
Clyde effortlessly keeps pace with him – Craig’s used to being taller, but Clyde is starting to catch up to him. “Did something happen,” he’s asking, all quiet now, like he’s starting to get worried.  
Craig’s nervous enough that he almost begins to laugh. He holds it in though, because he’s not sure if he’d be able to stop… Did something happen? Oh, not yet, he wants to say. But when he tells Clyde, when he finally puts himself out of his misery and just _says_ it… What’ll happen then?  
Craig abruptly stops walking. His feet have taken them down one of the little side-paths among the pines, heavy with their coats of snow. “I,” he begins, just as a big lump of snow slides down a branch and lands, with a wet slap, right on his head.  
It’s such a stupid, cartoony coincidence that they’re both startled into laughing. “Good thing you’re always wearing your hat,” Clyde chuckles. It’s common knowledge that Clyde _hates_ wearing hats, though he doesn’t mind helmets for hockey and football. He reaches out, with that casual closeness that’s always existed between them, and starts to brush the snow off Craig’s head. The thought of how this might never happen again, that Clyde might never want to go _near_ him again, suddenly forces the words to climb out of Craig’s throat; because Craig Tucker is nothing if not contrary.  
“Dude,” he says, just as Clyde starts brushing the snow off his shoulders, “I’m gay.”  
Clyde freezes up – not like he’s grossed out, more like a movie that’s been put on pause. “Oh,” he says, and his eyes widen a bit, “Okay.” But then he shrugs, and goes back to brushing that snow off of Craig, like those past few seconds didn’t even happen.  
“Okay,” Craig says, and he can hear himself starting to get annoyed, “Okay?!”  
“Did you think I’d _mind,_ ” Clyde asks, and now he sounds a little stung. “You’re my best friend!”  
“But,” Craig splutters, because how can Clyde not get it? “Isn’t God supposed to come _smite_ people like me?”  
“Not the God _I_ believe in,” Clyde says, before he throws his arms around Craig and almost lifts him off the ground. “Just because I believe in God, doesn’t mean I can’t believe in my friend.”  
“That’s, that’s the cheesiest thing I’ve heard in my _life,_ ” Craig mutters into the front of Clyde’s jacket, but what he’s really saying is _Thank you._ And Clyde gets that, of course he does, because _neither_ of them can remember a time before they were friends.  
“Hey,” Clyde says, as he lets go of Craig, who staggers – is he light-headed from relief, or because Clyde literally squeezed all the oxygen out of him? That look on Clyde’s face warns him there’s a joke on the way. He’ll never learn Jimmy’s trick of just sliding a joke into the conversation. “Most of the priesthood are gay, too!”  
It’s the relief, more than anything; that makes Craig laugh until his stomach hurts, doubled over and hanging off Clyde’s arm. The way his guts have stopped twisting, that deep-down way he knows everything’s going to be okay now. The way he _knows_ that nothing’s going to change between the two of them. 

Now:  


“Well, _that_ makes perfect sense,” Token says, all numb inside with rage at this latest betrayal. “Craig’s gay, and _you’re_ the only one he told?” He grabs Clyde’s arm and wrenches his friend around, pulls him to his feet. Clyde’s not exactly a feather, but the anger gives Token Hulk-strength. “I’m not even surprised anymore!”  
“W-what’s that supposed to mean?” Clyde’s so nervous that he’s on the verge of laughing, like a cornered monkey.  
“It means that I’m sick of _Craig_ ,” Token pushes Clyde to one side, away from the coffee table that Craig still sits huddled behind, “Always playing favorites!” He leans over Craig – looms over him – to shout that last bit in his face. And Craig, who’d normally respond to that sort of behaviour with a shove and some juicy swearing, actually _cringes_. He’s still crying, too – if anything, the crying’s worse now; but it only serves to make Token angrier.  
“Dude, what’re you even _talking_ about?” Clyde doesn’t seem annoyed at all, even though Token just put his elbow in his chest – just worried. Token still remembers a time when he’d never raise his voice at Clyde, back when Clyde’s mother was alive and kicking and crazy. Back then, Clyde had lived in a constant state of almost-panic. Even the littlest things, like one of the girls in class snapping his favorite ruler in half, or Jimmy snatching the last piece of bacon off his plate, had been enough to reduce him to tears. But now? Now Token’s so mad, and so damn jealous, that he’s just realized he actually _wants_ to make Clyde cry.  
“I’m talking about how it’s always been,” Token snarls, “You and him, always keeping secrets! You never let the _rest_ of us in, even though we’re _all_ supposed to be friends!”  
“Token,” Jimmy says, from over by the coffee table. And Token gets what he means, because of course he and Jimmy have had countless secrets from the other two over the years – but those were all stupid, _small-time_ secrets. Something as huge as what Craig and Clyde have been sitting on – how could Craig _not_ tell them, unless he thought they’d _turn_ on him as soon as they found out? Does Craig honestly think Token and Jimmy are _that_ flavour of shitheads? How could he not realize that the two of them know all _about_ being stared at and treated differently?  
Nobody’s saying anything now, and for a little while, the only sound is that of Craig’s hoarse, hopeless sobs.  
“Hey.” Token’s honestly not sure what he was expecting from Clyde – a hug was definitely not it. But Clyde throws his arms around Token from behind, squeezing him tight enough that it almost hurts. “I’m so sorry,” Clyde is saying, and his voice is so kind and reasonable that Token wants to scream. “I never meant to shut you guys out. But that secret wasn’t mine to tell, you know?”  
“I _know_ that,” Token growls, wrestling his way out of Clyde’s grip, “ _You’re_ not the one I’m mad at! But Craig’s always… Always…” It’s ridiculous, how the words just slip from his grasp. But there are so many years of secret, simmering resentment finally starting to boil that Token’s finding it hard to stay coherent. “Always picked you,” he says, and he can hear his own voice harden.  
“Oh.” Clyde abruptly lets go of him, and when Token glances over his shoulder, the mix of hurt and remorse on his friend’s face is almost too much to look at. It’s like suddenly, Clyde is ten years old again. Chubby and jumpy; and terrified of being yelled at.  
Somewhere far away, Craig is still crying. Token is torn between wanting to punch him and wanting to hold him, and rock him from side to side like you’d rock a baby.  
That’s when Jimmy suddenly says his name again, and Token feels a sharp stab of fear. Because Jimmy’s holding up Craig’s blue glass, right under his nose – like he’s sniffing it. He raises the glass to his lips and takes a small, cautious sip, before his bushy eyebrows shoot up. “There’s m-more booze in this than j-juice,” he says, and his bushy eyebrows knit together in suspicion. “Token, did you d-do that on p-p-purpose?” 

For a second or two, nobody speaks, but the air is charged with _something_ – anger? – so intense that Jimmy can almost feel it dancing across his skin.  
Then Clyde, who’s crouched down in front of Craig again, wordlessly holds his hand out. Jimmy places the blue glass in it. Clyde’s expression is worryingly blank while he drinks; Jimmy finds himself holding his breath. He sees Craig raise his head, red-rimmed eyes widening in surprise.  
“You’d drink… from my glass?” Craig’s voice is hoarse from crying, and something in his tone almost makes _Jimmy_ start to tear up.  
Clyde doesn’t seem to have heard him, though. “You spiked his drink,” he says, a statement of fact, rising from his crouch like a cliff bursting out of the sea. Token takes two backward steps, quick as a gazelle evading a bullet, like he knows he’d have Clyde’s foot in his balls in a _second_ if he’d stayed put. It isn’t often, that Clyde reminds them of his mom. But now, his ruddy cheeks are pale with fury, and his gaze is fixed on Token’s face. “You’re supposed to be his friend. And you spiked his drink,” Clyde goes on, his voice flat and toneless.  
“I didn’t,” Token begins, but Jimmy can see straightaway that he’s not trying to lie his way out of anything – he’s just too shaken to find the right words. “I didn’t mean for, for it to turn out like _this!_ ” Token waves his arm in Craig’s general direction; and Craig snaps his head around like he’s been slapped. What does _he_ even think Token meant by that – that Token never expected Craig would grow up to like guys? Jimmy does know the feeling, when you’re so upset that no matter _what_ anyone says, you’ll always find a way of twisting it in your head, and making it about how much they hate you. That's how _he’d_ used to think, back when he was a little brat. Every time he came home from gym and Mom fussed over his swollen legs, Jimmy would tell himself she was annoyed because he’d busted himself up, disappointed that he wasn’t normal. So Jimmy _gets_ it, he really does…  
“You could have asked him,” Clyde bellows, derailing Jimmy’s train of thought as his pale face instantly flushes a deep red. Token takes a step back, and then another, but Jimmy’s sitting close enough to see his lips narrowing into a thin, angry line. Clyde’s not the only one who’s pissed as hell now. As Token – taller than Clyde, but only _just_ – jabs his finger in the other boy’s chest and snarls, “You honestly think he would’ve _told_ me,” Jimmy _knows_ it’s pointless to try and get between them. So he sets about getting down on the floor instead, where Craig is still sitting, arms wrapped around his legs. That look on Craig’s face – it’s the look of someone watching their whole life falling apart.  
Jimmy slides his right leg – it’s the stronger one – as far under the coffee table as it’ll go, while he shuffles forwards, to the very edge of the couch. Right, here goes. Balanced on his heel, Jimmy lowers himself to the floor, gritting his teeth as a muscle in his right calf decides that _this,_ this is the perfect time to cramp up. Ugh, goddamn it. His hands, flat on the carpet, take most of his weight as Jimmy stretches his left leg out, too. Okay, so far, so good. His right leg is still throbbing like crazy as Jimmy moves closer to Craig, though he makes sure to leave _some_ space between them. Craig looks so pathetic that Jimmy just wants to wrap him up in the world’s biggest hug right away – but no. He still remembers how a single pat on the shoulder made Craig pull away like he’d been _hit._  
Up there, in the land of the angry and able-bodied, Token and Clyde are engaged in a full-on shouting match. But, that’s not really Jimmy’s problem right now. “C-C-Craig,” he says, stuttering over such a simple name, probably because he’s kept quiet for so long. That muscle in his right leg literally feels like it’s moving, writhing around like a snake in there.  
Craig turns to look at him, rubbing the back of his hand under his nose. “Yeah?” His voice is so tiny, a million miles away from his usual confident drawl. And somehow, the human body can produce enough water for Craig to still be crying!  
“L-listen,” Jimmy begins, as he locks eyes with Craig, “I’m k-k-kind of hurt you though we w-wouldn’t w-w-want to stay f-f-friends w-with you. But,” he smiles, and tries to _will_ Craig to understand, without words, how much their friendship has always meant to him, “I do g-get it. Okay?”  
For a minute, the two boys just stare at each other. Then, Craig swallows a big lump of snot, and says, “Okay.” He’s still not quite back to the boy who hung over the garden fence with his sister the day Jimmy and his parents moved in, all those years ago. The boy who’d asked him if he liked comic books or Harry Potter, without once mentioning the crutches or the stutter. Because to Craig, _that_ stuff has always been irrelevant.  
“C-can I g-g-give you a hug now,” Jimmy asks, wagging his eyebrows.  
“Mm,” Craig says, nodding just once.  
So Jimmy holds his arms out wide and Craig presses his face into his T-shirt, curling up against him, whimpering like a puppy. Jimmy rests his cheek against the top of Craig’s head for a second, and feels his friend let out a huge sigh.  
“Hey,” Jimmy says, because Clyde and Token are still arguing up there. No reaction, so Jimmy dials up the volume a touch. “Hey!”  
The glares those two give him, when they turn their heads in his direction… Jesus. Jimmy rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “This is n-not about you two,” he snaps, finally starting to get angry. “It’s about Craig, and the sh-shit he’s g-going through!”  
Token ducks his head and rubs his hands over his eyes. “Goddamn it, you’re right,” he mutters, just before Clyde sort of shakes himself awake and says, “Dude, I’m sorry about…” The two of them look at each other for a second, before Clyde holds his hand out for a shake and Token grabs it, pulling him into a quick hug instead. And that’s it, game over for what, as far as Jimmy knows, is the biggest fight those two have ever had.  
While Clyde squats down on the floor, reaching over to rub Craig’s back, Token goes to perch on the edge of the coffee table. “Craig,” he says, and now he sounds one hundred percent like himself again. “Craig, I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been an asshole to you, but…” Token holds his hand out, like an astronaut reaching into the void, and Jimmy can’t help but notice that it’s shaking. “Can we still be friends?”  
Slowly, Craig pushes away from Jimmy and raises his head. He takes a moment to blow his nose into his own sleeve, which is so damn cute that Jimmy just wants to hug him all over again. “You mean,” he says, finally looking up at Token; “You still want to?”

Jimmy’s mom has a waffle maker, and Jimmy knows the recipe, so while Craig’s been sleeping the booze off, the three of them have dined like kings. They’ve taken turns sitting up here with him, while he tosses and turns on the old mattress on the floor – Token went first, while Jimmy made the batter and Clyde passed him the eggs and stuff from the fridge. Then Clyde took his first portion upstairs to swap with Token, who just brought him a second portion on a whole new plate, with maple syrup and everything, because the Valmers have like a thousand plates anyway. Clyde’s just scooping up the syrup from the edges of the plate with his last piece of waffle when Craig starts to stir.  
“Craig!” He hurriedly reaches around the doorframe to put his plate down on the hallway floor, before he crawls on all fours towards his best friend. “How’re you feeling, man?”  
Craig just groans and rolls over on his side, wrapping his arms around his head. He’s wearing the pyjama shirt Jimmy made him take last night, a dark blue and green tartan one, because the one Craig had been wearing was so full of snot. He’d literally been blowing his nose on his own sleeves, like a little kid! Craig had drawn the line at borrowing the pants, though.  
“Token called your mom,” Clyde tells him, doing his best to keep his voice down, while he reaches up to grab the glass and the box of pills Token set up on the desk. “You should’ve heard him. Oscar-worthy. You want some water?”  
Craig seems to consider that for a second, although even _thinking_ seems to hurt his head. “Yuh,” he manages, pushing himself up on one elbow. Then he opens his eyes, which seems to have been a big mistake, as Craig immediately slaps his hand over his mouth. Clyde puts the water down and dives for the bucket, which Jimmy was considerate enough put right next to Craig’s pillow. He shoves the bucket under Craig’s chin, and not a moment too soon.  
“Yeah, so Token was asking her if Tricia’s come down with something,” Clyde says, keeping up a whole, one-sided conversation while Craig vomits. “Your mom was all, no? So then Token was like, well Craig’s got a fever, and he’s begging us to just let him sleep…” With his left hand, Clyde’s helping him hold the bucket in place, while he’s pressing his right palm against Craig’s clammy forehead. “And now your mom’s not expecting you home until I don’t know, and whoa! That’s a _lot_ , dude! I mean, you barely ate anything last night!”  
“Shaddup,” Craig mutters, pushing the bucket away. Here’s hoping that was the last of it. Clyde reaches behind him to put the bucket, with its stinking, flesh-pink contents, as far away from them as his arm can reach.  
Then, he presses the glass of water into Craig’s hand – a green one today, even though Token was doing his best to match up everyone with their favorite colors yesterday.  
Suddenly, Craig looks right at him, his brown eyes boring into Clyde’s own. “They know,” he says, and he sounds frightened. “Last night, I…”  
“Yup,” Clyde tells him, because it’s only the truth, “They know. And the world didn’t end, huh?”  
Craig’s just frozen there, with the glass halfway to his lips. “Guess not,” he says at last. Then, he drinks the whole glass down in the one gulp. Clyde can’t help laughing at him, when he takes the glass back. “Dude, you need water for the Advil,” he tells Craig, before he bounds to his feet. He feels so… energized, all of a sudden, and so stupidly happy. “And they’re obviously not gonna tell anybody. That’s for you to do, whenever you want.” His hand closes around Craig’s shoulder for just a second, one quick squeeze, before he’s out of the room. When he turns around to close the door, just to make sure he doesn’t slam it, he sees Craig slowly sinking back on the mattress; eyes squeezed shut, pushing one hand through his bangs. The way Clyde did, just a minute ago.  
“The world didn’t end,” Craig says, out loud and to himself. Like he knows it’s the truth, too.


End file.
